


I Gotta Run, Can't Stand Still

by ordinarily (tofty), tofty



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-15
Updated: 2009-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-15 09:41:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofty/pseuds/ordinarily, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofty/pseuds/tofty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam/Dean - underage impala!sex, really hot summer day, Dean teaches Sam about classic rock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Gotta Run, Can't Stand Still

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the first round of [blindfold_spn](http://blindfold_spn.livejournal.com), for the prompt given in the summary. Sam is about fifteen here, and the hurricane, if you're interested, is Georges, which hit the Mississippi coast in September 1998.

When you've just sat through your first Pascagoula hurricane and the electricity's out and will be out probably for a couple days more and the air's not moving and it's ninety-three degrees at ten a.m. and the only air-conditioned space available to you is your dad's straight-up awesome car, well. You're gonna sit in the car and eat your breakfast, right? You're gonna sit on the vinyl seat and sip your cereal from a 32-ounce cup because it's just easier to drink it than it is to eat it no matter what your pain-in-the-ass little brother says. He can say the word _uncivilized_ at you all he wants, face screwed up like a monkey's: when _civil_ starts fucking around with _practical_ , guess which side you're gonna choose, every time.

You're sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Sam in the Impala, drinking your milk, shirts off and barefoot, the air blasting icy against your collarbone, and hurricane or not, power outage or not, Dad absent or not, you're in a fucking great mood, the mud and grass on your toes drying slowly and crumbling off as you tap them against the brake to Led Zeppelin IV.

You think Sam's probably staring moodily out at the water, mud, wilted grass, fallen trees, whatever. You, though, you've got your eyes closed, and you're thinking lazily about jerking off, right hand flat against your stomach, but you're maybe just a little too midmorning sunblind sleepy to get around to doing it, when Sam's voice breaks in. "Dean, can I switch the tape?"

Your eyes open wide at that. "No fuckin' way. Too hot to listen to your whiny woe-is-meeeee bullshit. What's wrong with Zeppelin?"

"Dunno, Dean, guess it just doesn't give me a boner like it does you." Sam's eyes drop pointedly to your lap, and no way are you planning on telling him that the boner's more because you were thinking about licking off his faint milk mustache than because you were grooving to "Black Dog." You'll let him think what he wants. Or, hey--

"Sammy," you say, scowling at him in outrage that's only half-faked, because this will not stand, no one can accuse someone of being uncivilized in one sentence and then dis Led Zeppelin in the next and still maintain his credibility. "Sammy, Sammy, have I taught you nothing?" He's got this look on his face like his answer's not gonna be one you'll really want to hear, he's so good at those putdowns, so you plow on before he can get his voice around this one. "'Course the music gives me a hard-on, dude. Why wouldn't it? There's no better music on earth to fuck to than this. Popped my cherry and Lisette Miller's too, and even probably a few more, to this record. About a million other kids've done the same. And you're tellin' me you don't see the appeal?"

Sam shrugs and turns the air vent so it blows his hair straight back, like he's not really paying attention, but you know him well enough to know better. His eyes keep sliding sideways at you, face quarter-turned, and you can see the flush high on his his cheeks, dark pink lighting his summer tan up. So you keep on going.

"Yeah." You finish the last of your milk and toss the cup aside, then turn a little in his direction and slide your cold fingers against Sam's nipples, already tight from the machine-chilled air blowing across them. Sam gasps, his mouth going slack, and yeah, yeah, this is good, this part, this instant where Sam just stops arguing about every fucking thing, stops questioning everything, and lets you take over, so good, "it's the rhythm, see? John Bonham really knew what he was doing, different songs with different rhythms but so good for fucking, fast or slow depending on your mood, but always hard, always driving." You lean in, your tongue flickers against his lips lightly, and his flashes out to meet yours but you make sure you're already gone, already talking again, voice as low as you can get it without whispering, right against his ear, so close he can feel your lips moving, "and when you add that down-and-dirty bass line from John-Paul Jones and Jimmy Page's wailing guitar and Jesus Christ Robert Plant whose voice sounds like he's coming all the fucking time," and then you lose your train of thought because Sam's grabbing your hand and crushing it down against his dick, not even letting you get your hand around it, just grinding his hips up into your palm, turning his head to breathe into your mouth, and you lick into it for real, this time, taste sugar and starch and milk and Sam who has a sweetness unlike anything you've ever tasted or ever will taste again, pulling you down on top of him and sliding his legs hot around yours, his dick aligned right to yours in every possible good way, so goddamn sweet that when he comes you come too, from just the feel of his uncontrolled shivers, and as he moans, breath mixing warm with the cool A/C, you're thinking that the memory of Lisette Miller's all but gone now and maybe you'll never ride in the car again without remembering this song and Sam's blissed-out face and his crazy too-long hair splayed against the stitched pattern of the seat, his fingers gripping your back, ankles twisting around yours, and you're kind of hoping that he'll remember too, maybe not exactly the same things, but in the same way, like there isn't much more important than this.

And you laugh and tuck your face against his shoulder. "God, and Sam, this's just Zeppelin IV. Wait till we play Physical Grafitti. We will tear it up to 'Kashmir.'"

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Led Zeppelin's "Black Dog."


End file.
